Senses
by TuesdayNovember
Summary: Drabble series. Each of the five senses as experienced in 100 words by the Black cousins.
1. Bellatrix Lestrange

**Ah, I've begun another drabble series. Do you smell that? It's the smell of a new story. Delightful.**

**I'd like to thank the _incredibly_ wonderful Xx Starlight-Moon xX for her help with this.**

**This series is dedicated to Anna Scathach. **

**Enjoy! **

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_Bellatrix._

**I: Taste**

Her mouth is dry. Her lips cracked and, when she opens her mouth too wide, bloody. Sometimes her dry cat's tongue, coarse and hot, darts out to lick the blood off.

Sometimes not.

There are few rituals to uphold in Azkaban.

Too much time has passed – she only has one.

When the Dementors leave, she takes the metal tag around her neck and puts it in her mouth. The taste is sharp, sour, disgusting.

Her body rushes to produce saliva, to wash it out.

Meetings with Dementors leave her thirsty, and she drinks the spit, for there is no water.

**II: Touch**

The walls under her hands are rough. They scrape at her, hard enough to pull thin layers back, to leave white streaks of dry, lifted skin.

The walls are not rough enough to draw blood, to cause any real pain.

Running her hands along them makes her palms tingle and her fingers grow cold.

It brings her small comfort to know that she has not lost feeling.

When she was first brought in, she scoured the cell for signs of prior life. Etched words, dates, anything.

But she finds nothing.

The walls are cold and rough and hold no secrets.

**III: Sight**

There is nothing for her to look at.

Grey, grey, grey, everywhere she turns. Grey skin, grey walls, grey floor. She thinks her eyes must be grey too. Even the black of her hair seems grey.

She looks down at herself, and sees that the white of her clothes has turned grey with age. It makes her heart plummet to see that, for she knows not how long it's been.

There is no way to tell time.

She only knows a month has passed when blood leaks in dirty red rivulets down her thighs.

It's the only colour she sees.

**IV: Smell**

Faceless figures push food into her cell twice a day. Metal tray. Bowl of porridge. Two apple slices. Milk in the morning. Water at night.

The food has no smell.

She used to think she was going mad.

_Of course it has a smell. All food has a smell._

She bent her nose towards it. Nothing.

She grew desperate, checked before meals. Apple, porridge, water, milk.

She threw the porridge at the walls, never cleaned up. She waited for it to rot, so she could smell it.

It just stuck like glue.

She smelled piss, blood, shit, sweat.

Not food.

**V: Sound**

Azkaban is a silent prison.

The only things she hears are her ragged breathing and her weak heartbeat, _hiss, hiss, lub-dub, lub-dub_, over the sound of the ocean going _shhhch, shhhch. _

It used to surprise her that she could hear the ocean from her cell, but now she wonders if that sound really is the ocean, or if she just imagines it.

Sometimes she can't hear anything, and she screams to make sure she hasn't gone deaf.

Her screams tear at her throat, but the mixture of pain and sound reassures her.

She lives in hope that someone hears her.

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**Thoughts? I'd love to hear them!**


	2. Andromeda Tonks

**Here we are, the second of five parts. This one is less angsty than the last, which is probably a good thing**

**I'm planning on making the next one mostly fluff, so hopefully (hopefully) I'll have it up on Valentine's Day.**

**Enjoy!**

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_Andromeda._

**I: Taste**

Ted made dinner last night. Pasta. It was awful.

It was overcooked, hanging limply from my fork, trembling at the slightest vibration. Sauce too watery – it just pooled at the bottom of the bowl. The cheese was all wrong. Parmigiano? Asiago? No – _cheddar_. Hot, stringy and yellow, refusing to sever when I pulled it up. _Too much cheese, Ted! It shouldn't do that!_

It tasted all wrong. Mushy, salty, _wet_.

_I made it with love, _he said, grinning.

The second bite was marginally better.

By the third, I was convinced it wasn't so bad.

_Like it?_

_I love it, Ted._

**II: Touch**

Perverse curiosity led me back just once.

Quiet as a mouse, I crept through empty rooms.

The Family Tree hung as it always had – I wanted to see it.

Knees against the cold, hard floor, I ran my fingers over it, feeling the threads catch against my skin. Smooth ripples in the cloth. Down past our ancestors, to me.

Charred black. Empty space. Torn ends mocked my fingers with their gentle tickle. Warm, as if I had just been burned off.

I traced it, uneven edges crumbling.

It was cold, and I caught a chill that didn't fade for months.

**III: Sight**

I still sleep on green sheets. Even now, long after the Manor, after Hogwarts, after my family…

Green is the colour of death, they say. The colour of evil.

But I am not a harbinger of death. I am not evil.

Ted, my Ted, wanted me to change them early on. But I wouldn't. I couldn't.

After he…

Sometimes now I wonder if I ought to change them. For him.

But I never do.

Green is the colour of my past. It is the colour of living things and goodness.

There is no loyalty in green. It's only a colour.

**IV: Smell**

There are flowers in the garden, just under the kitchen windowsill. In summer, when the air is warm, I open the windows so that I can smell the roses.

Sweet and gentle, their perfume floats on the cooling breeze.

I take a long time with the dishes, doing them the Muggle way so I can feel the roses' tender kisses envelop me.

The sun warms my cheeks, but my greatest pleasure comes from the scarlet flowers that perfume the temperate air.

I do not choose to remember the garden at the Manor, by now just a wild disarray of thorns.

**V: Sound**

It's always noisy. Outside, inside. Everywhere.

I wake up and fall asleep to the sound of motorcars and children's shouts. Midday is punctuated by twelve tolls of the churchbells a few blocks away.

I love it.

I can't remember ever hearing so many sounds at the Manor. There were the gently twittering songs of birds to wake us, the soft buzzing of crickets and the quiet patter of tiny elf feet to put us to bed.

I like to think that noise heralds my new life.

But sometimes in the very early morning I miss hearing the birds so clearly.

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**I do love reviews, you know.**


	3. Narcissa Malfoy

**Well, my 'up on Valentines day' idea **_**obviously**_** didn't pan out. Nevertheless, this still follows my original decision of fluff. And that's why it took so long to be written. I'm **_**terrible**_** at writing romance. Ah well.**

**Also, my reviewers are the most incredibly fantastic people on the planet. I'd like to thank them all by name. Many thanks go to SlytherinPrincessxXx, BellaPur, Lamia of the Dark, Lissome Lilt, Inkfire, bathtubblogger, Primigrl and, of course, Anna Scathach. **

**Enjoy!**

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_Narcissa._

**I: Smell**

The smell of lilies was the first thing I noticed, as the doors were pushed open and the strains of harps floated on the air.

But as I walked towards Lucius, I was offered snatches of perfume as well. Each one twirling into the next. Fruit and flowers.

My father's cologne as he walked beside me was given in wisps.

And as I approached the dais, my father melting away into my mother's arms, the perfumes died away as well.

The lilies wept scent before me, but I could only smell Lucius' cologne. It made my heart flutter.

And I –

**II: Sound**

heard the old wizard speak the words I'd been waiting to hear all morning.

_We are gathered here this eighteenth day of June to bear witness to the marital bonding of Narcissa Black and Lucius Malfoy…_

But his words were drowned out by the rushing in my ears, like crashing waves.

_It must be my nerves, _I thought, and I tried to listen to the ceremony. But I couldn't.

Soft white noise muted everything except the beating of my heart. _Lub-dub, lub-dub_, so loud I thought everyone could hear it.

I heard,

_… seal the bond with a kiss…_

And –

**III: Sight**

it was then that I realized I could barely see. Everything was foggy, blurry beyond Lucius. The old wizard was seen in impressions. The guests, my parents, nothing more than swatches of colour.

But in their vague shadows, Lucius came alive. I had never seen black robes swirling so brightly in the breeze. I had never seen hair so light it was nearly silver, sparkling, made all the more blinding by contrast. And his eyes. _Oh_ his eyes! Deep and swirling grey, like storm clouds over the tumultuous ocean.

My breath caught in my throat.

He leaned forwards and I –

**IV: Touch**

felt my heart stop and my stomach do back-flips. He was _so close_. I could feel his breath on my cheeks, tickling my eyelashes.

All the heat in my body seemed to rise to my cheeks.

It must have been an eternity before one of his hands cupped my cheek. Cold, but it only made me warmer.

My hands found their way to his shoulders, half tangled in his hair. His robes were smooth, but I could feel every thread, every hair winding its way around my fingers like silver bands.

And for a torturous half-second there was nothing, until –

**V: Taste**

my eyes closed, only half consciously, and the breath that had been on my lashes only a moment ago was warming my lips. A fraction of a centimetre apart now, and everything was so _warm_.

And then I felt it. His lips on mine. So soft, so gentle.

He eased my lips apart, so slowly I almost thought he didn't want to.

And that was when everything melted away. Sound, smell, sight, touch, all of it fell away, and I tasted _him_.

_**This**__ is Lucius,_ I thought.

And I knew that I whimpered. But I was too happy to care.

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**I do love reviews, you know. ;)**


	4. Sirius Black

**Well, I wanted to have this up earlier, but it's up now. There's nothing like an essay to procrastinate on to make me write. ****I also tried for a bit of symmetry between this chapter and the first. So if you're reading and seeing similarities, it's intentional - not because I've run out of ideas. =P**

**Once again, I simply **_**must**_** thank my reviewers by name. I'm bowled over – **_**overjoyed – **_**by the response I've received. ****Many thanks to you, BellaPur, jobogtheqwerty, bathtubblogger, Dithinus, The Golden Phoenix Song, Inkfire, Lamia of the Dark, SlytherinPrincessxXx and, of course, Anna Scathach.**

**Anna must also be thanked for her input regarding the nature of scent in Azkaban. **

**Phew, that was a long one. Enjoy!**

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_Sirius. _

**I: Taste**

He sits in a corner. Slumped over like an old ragdoll and just as dirty. He has not yet realised the Dementors will pass him by, if he only sits as a dog.

In a corner of his cell, a meal lays waiting. Water, porridge, apple slices.

It takes all his energy just to drag himself that metre. His stomach begs, just at the thought of food.

When he reaches out, it is for the water. _Too small. _It is gone in an instant. _So thirsty._

His mouth waters in anticipation of his meal, and for that, he is thankful.

**II: Touch**

His pointed dog nails scratch the cold floor. They catch on the little inconsistencies – there are so many – and send tremors through his paws.

It almost tickles. It almost feels…_good._

But nothing feels good anymore. It is a foreign concept, one that seems almost laughable now. If he could laugh.

But he cannot, so he relishes in whatever joy he can find – the tiniest vibrations and the way the stone is almost warm when he lies in one spot without moving.

It is hardly a joy to _almost_ be warm, to _almost_ feel good.

In time, half-pleasure becomes more torturous.

**III: Sight**

There is a window. At first it meant nothing – only another part of his hell. He tried to break it – to get out or to pierce his heart with an arrow of glass. Both an escape.

Later, he almost thought it was a blessing.

_Through that,_ _I can see the world._

But now _he knows_ it is no blessing – all is calculated torture.

The dog watches grey clouds swim thickly through a grey sky – the man sees the same thing.

It is the absence of colour that kills him so slowly.

He would make himself bleed just to see red.

**IV: Smell**

As a dog, he can smell _everything_. It comes as a shock the first time. As a man, he had been so used to smelling only sweat – only the things that come out of him.

But as a dog, he can smell apples for the first time. And it makes him so happy he can _feel_ his heart expanding with joy. The smell of the outdoors – of _life._

The change is sudden. Overcome, he falls back into his human skin, and the Dementors swoop down like black vultures and suck it out of him.

A dog again, he smells nothing.

**V: Sound**

There is the tiniest of cracks, right by the window. When it is windy – it often is – he hears the wind whistling through the crack.

At first, the thin, high noise provided something like respite from the silence punctuated only by shrieks.

But time passed, and the wind that whirled so fiercely around Azkaban picked up – and he heard the whistling as frequently as the screams.

Now, a dog, he lies in the corner, and he hears the wind for what it really is – the desperate shriek of nature, _begging_ not to be forced in.

He can't help but howl.

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**Review, darling?**


	5. Regulus Black

**Well, here it is. The final instalment of **_**Senses.**_** I'm rather sad to end it, but, well, that's how things go. I just hope you've enjoyed reading this as much as I've enjoyed writing it for you. A huge thank-you to all my wonderful reviewers - you've been too marvellous to me. And a special thank-you to Anna Scathach, for not complaining when I write strange things and dedicate them to her. **

**This chapter is written for the wonderful Hanna (Mesteria)'s 'senses' challenge at xoxLewrahxox's forum. **

**Also, a warning: this chapter is dark, possibly disturbing. The imagery isn't pleasant, and it's rather…unhappy. **_**Just thought you ought to know.**_

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_Regulus. _

**I: Taste**

Your mouth is closed; tongue lying leaden, a prize behind white doors. If you could, you might remember what a tongue does.

If you could, you might remember the taste of honey and oranges and red peppers – your favourite things.

If you could, you would open your mouth to scream.

In time, your mouth may fall open. Leeches will make it their home. You will not taste them.

Even in death you will know what it means to be alive. You will know you are dead. Your mouth is open and your tongue is rotting but you will taste

_nothing_.

**II: Touch**

There are waterlogged things that bump against you. Little nudges that send your head rolling to the side or cause a leg to move in a sick parody of living.

Heavy grey limbs bobbing.

The weight of the water pushes you into the silt. It caresses your mutilated body. The pressure like a reassuring hug. One hand is upturned, and when a fish passes close by, it almost looks as though you're petting it. You might have smiled your grim smile had you known that you'd finally have a pet, be given a hug, in death.

Underwater, everything is touching.

**III: Sight**

You are surrounded by inky water. So far from the surface, you could see nothing, even in life.

You opened your eyes as you were pulled in. The strangest show of bravery, when you had never willingly opened them underwater before.

You wanted to see what your graveyard would look like – not that it makes any difference now.

It is you who is seen.

Lamp-like fish eyes sometimes float like two silver moons before you. Sometimes those moons are attached to hungry mouths that take whatever they can from your unresisting body.

The first thing they took was your eyes.

**IV: Smell**

Underwater, everything is foreign. As you were pulled down, your nose was stoppered by an endless push of greasy black water. What no one told you about the inferi is that they smell. Perhaps it should have been obvious to you that the dead, walking or not, would carry the rotting, half-sweet stench of death.

But underwater, as their dead white hands pulled you down, the water stops you from smelling them. It allows you a moment of fantasy, a few moments where you can pretend to be swimming through the brackish water – only flailing because you never learned how.

**V: Sound**

Your ears are muffled by dirt – damp, heavy and cold. The rhythmic back-and-forth of the dead water pushes silt in and sloshes it back in turn.

When you were younger, you went to the seaside. Mother, father, brother and you. While your mother slept, your father read and your brother built sandcastles only to crush them, you sat on an elevated rock and watched the water slide in to be pulled out again.

You heard the sound of waves, and the high wind that was always more feverish by the water.

And you thought you wouldn't mind dying at sea.

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**Any last comments would be greatly appreciated. **


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